


Purifying Galahad

by Mrs_SimonTam_PHD



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Addiction, Angel Blood Dependence, Angst, Blood Drinking, Bottom!Sam, But nothing outwardly written, Canon Compliant Up to 4x21, Demon Blood Addiction, I guess there's fluff?, Look I have no clue how to tag, Love Story? Ish?, M/M, Sam's Low Self Esteem, Sam's Quest for Purity, Smut, Top!Michael, alternate season 5, idk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-25 16:34:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16664305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mrs_SimonTam_PHD/pseuds/Mrs_SimonTam_PHD
Summary: The Archangel Michael, St. Michael, the Viceroy of all Heaven, had been on a mission. That mission was to save Sam Winchester.





	Purifying Galahad

**Author's Note:**

> So I've had this idea mulling around in the back of my mind for a while, and I WAS going to make this a lot filthier. Instead, it came out like this and. . . *gestures vaguely*
> 
> Much love and thanks to my wifey @spnyoucantkeepmedown for beta'ing

The Archangel Michael, St. Michael, the Viceroy of all Heaven,  _ had  _ been on a mission. That mission was to save Sam Winchester. 

Michael’s True Vessel may have been Dean, but just like Dean, Michael was concerned about Sam’s well being. And watching someone go through demon blood withdrawals was almost too much to bear. Especially when Michael knew that Sam would relapse. It was only a matter of time, especially with Famine on the loose. Filthy, disgusting Famine. Better than Pestilence, but still not on the level of Death and War. War, he felt a special kinship with. For a variety of reasons. 

He had come down to Earth to help. He wasn’t going to influence Dean’s decision- somehow, he had the feeling that Dean would never listen, that he would never take up his mantle, his  _ destiny. _

Sam would. And while Sam would need the demon blood in order to hold his Fallen brother, he could at the very least counteract it. 

Sam had rejected Michael’s offer, at first. Granted, Michael should have probably shown up before or after the detox, but he couldn’t let Sam suffer. Michael isn’t proud to admit that he begged for Sam to reconsider, to let him help, but he did. There was just something about Sam that made him want to help him. Maybe it was the similarities to Lucifer. Maybe because in a way, Michael could see himself within the younger Winchester. It couldn’t possibly have been the chestnut curls that Michael ached to run his fingers through, or the fever soaked eyes that dared hope that it WAS the Archangel standing in front of him, wearing a younger version of John Winchester. No, it must’ve been the strength of Sam Winchester that made Michael want to help in earnest. 

Angel blood counteracted the effects of demon blood. It was just the nature of it. It purified the blood as well, made it so that the powers remained but for longer without the need for a refill. It was just as addictive as demon blood, so Michael would have to take care in making sure Sam didn’t get addicted. 

It was also, as Michael learned quickly, an aphrodisiac, like its demonic counterpart. Michael had never considered the sins of the flesh before, but that was prior to Sam Winchester sliding down onto his cock and burying his face into the crook of Michael’s neck, riding him with everything he had, as if he could find salvation through orgasm. It was hot, thick, heady. Michael could feel his blood coursing through Sam’s system, feel it purifying him, erasing the demonic influence and replacing it. Sam was whispering praises to his name, praises normally meant for his Father.

Michael could’ve very easily have refused this, but he didn’t want to. He wanted everything that the Winchester had to offer, except for his consent as a Vessel. If this is what was needed to make the Apocalypse happen, then so be it. 

When Sam came, Michael almost felt as if the choirs of his brethren were singing, Sam gasping out his name like it was a curse and a prayer as cum spilled white-hot between them, setting off Michael’s own release like a chain reaction, filling up the human with his release. Sam was exhausted, and Michael couldn’t blame him. Purification of his blood and sex with an archangel would wear anyone out. He waved their clothes back on and tucked Sam into the cot that was provided in the panic room. He leaned over and whispered in Sam’s ear, “If you need me, pray,” before kissing his cheek. With that, he took off, no one ever being the wiser. 

  
  


It was four months before Sam needed him again, this time because he wanted Michael’s company. It genuinely baffled Michael at first, until he learned that Lucifer had come to visit Sam, taking on the appearance of Jessica Moore. Cruel trick, but Michael knew what approach Lucifer was using.  _ I can offer you the justice my Father will never give you _ . 

Well, on that, Michael would disagree, but he supposed it depended upon a person’s definition of  _ justice. _

Sam was in a motel room, alone, having split up with his brother after releasing Lucifer into the world. It was evident that Sam felt cursed. Impure. Unclean. Michael reassured Sam that none of these were true, but years of self-loathing came out, came out in a rush, and Michael felt like he needed to do something. 

“The closest thing I have felt to pure, all my life,” Sam finally choked out, “was when you came to visit me.” 

That came as a shock to Michael, but he supposed it made sense, especially in light of what was going on at the time. And what had happened. 

“I need that again, Michael,” Sam said, getting down on his knees in supplication, hands clasped in front of him like a penitent sinner. “Please? Please, grant me that. I. . . I  _ need  _ it.” 

Michael observed Sam for a time before nodding. “I will,” he murmured. “Come, let us sit down. It’ll make the whole process easier.” 

That was the night that Michael learned that Sam had a very large sexual appetite, that when he was healthy he could go for  _ hours. _ The archangel wondered if that was due to the demon blood Azazel had dropped into his mouth or just the way Sam Winchester was created, or both. Michael didn’t mind spending hours of his time in the nude, claiming his brother’s human for his own in a way Lucifer would never dream of. He showed Sam he cared, through words and actions; through blood and cum. Over and over he drove into Sam Winchester’s taut body, watching him surrender over and over again, Michael’s blood staining his lips as though it was the juices of a ripe strawberry. 

It lasted all night and Michael, himself, felt spent by the end of it. But seeing Sam’s sleepy smile and hearing his whispers of gratitude was all worth it to the archangel. 

 

It was getting out of hand, but Michael was powerless to stop it. Not when Sam begged so prettily. Not when Michael knew he could help. 

It progressed rapidly from once a month to once a week, almost skipping over once every other week as though that wasn’t a thing. Sam started taking separate hotel rooms, or sneaking out before praying to Michael, and Michael would come, every time, eager to provide Sam what he needed. He would bend over backwards for him. 

Michael knew he shouldn’t indulge in this filthy practice, the practice of giving Sam his blood in the human’s quest for purity and salvation. Lucifer himself would laugh at how far he’s fallen, ask Michael what it feels like. But he can’t deny Sam and his desire for angelic blood. Not when Sam rolls his hips and gives the Viceroy of Heaven those bright, sad eyes and tells Michael that he’ll be a good boy for him if he lets him have this. And Michael believed Sam. Believed  _ in  _ Sam. If this beautiful, broken boy with the demon blood could save the world, could prevent Michael from killing his brother, then he would let him have all the angelic blood in the world, let Sam take his fill of Michael’s cock, and let him feel that purity that Sam has sought his entire young life. 

Oh, Michael still worked on the Apocalypse as time marched closer. He still tried to persuade (unsuccessfully) Dean to be his Vessel. He still commanded Heaven’s armies and ignored Raphael’s disapproving looks. He still argued with Lucifer whenever his brother deigned to talk to him. But he felt disengaged. His focus was Sam, and trying to prove to the younger Winchester that he was good, pure, and clean. What happened to him doesn’t matter; what matters is how Sam dealt with it. Once he could get Sam to understand that, to understand his  _ worth _ , Michael would consider his job done. 

 

Michael long stopped thinking of what he was doing with Sam as a job and more of an indulgence as Famine loomed ever nearer. It was hard to think of it  _ as  _ a job. 

Not when Sam made such pretty sounds, begging for Michael’s blood and cock while the archangel held him down with nothing but Grace, youthful body writing in need. Aaahhh, the impatience of youth.

Not when Sam looked so sweet, so innocent, that Michael would forget what a filthy mouth he had when being fucked, that Sam  _ had  _ been fucked a good many times before. How a man who had been fucked oh so many times before, had laid with men and women alike prior to Michael (and a demon, but Michael tried to ignore the fact that Sam and Ruby were a thing) could look so, for lack of a better word,  _ virginal,  _ was beyond Michael, and not much was beyond the Viceroy of Heaven. 

Not when Sam carefully drank Michael’s blood from his wrist, as if Michael had handed him wine in the Holy Grail itself, eyes closed in bliss and a sense of peace washing over the young man. 

Not when Sam cried out for Michael so prettily, back arching as nails dug into Michael’s skin, wherever he could reach, as Michael thrusted inside of him after careful preparation. Michael would never hurt Sam, especially in that way. He never wanted Sam to think he was taking advantage of him, especially after Ruby (and if Michael could, he’d take Ruby back down to Hell itself and show her that Alastair was an amateur compared to him for what she did to Sam). 

Not when Sam was spent, arms wrapped around the archangel, whispering for Michael to stay just a little longer, just until he falls asleep. And Michael knows he shouldn’t, knows he should leave, but is powerless against puppy soft eyes and Sam’s overall vulnerability. And so he stays. If only for a little while. 

 

When Famine came to call, when the Winchesters were in the Horseman’s grasp, Sam relapsed on the demon blood. It was more readily available, and it was a stronger addiction, mostly because Michael knew a modicum of control and how to create a dependence, but not an addiction. He had flown to the panic room in Bobby Singer’s home once more and saw to the purification again. He comforted Sam that night, holding the young man close as Sam sobbed and begged for forgiveness on relapsing and drinking demon blood. 

There was no sex to be had that night, and Michael, while missed it, knew that that wasn’t what Sam needed. He’d return to have sex with the hunter at a later time. For right now, Sam needed Michael’s soothing touch and voice. He needed comfort in the form of embraces and gentle caresses and soft words. He didn’t need sex. 

He needed love. 

And so love is what he’ll give him.

 

Dean essentially said “Bite Me” when it came to saying “Yes” to him, just like Michael knew he would. Luckily, John Winchester had another son, Adam. He was able to possess Adam for the final showdown. 

Whenever he visited Sam, however, he would discard Adam and show up in the younger version of his father. 

The visits were more frequent. Sam’s lapse on demon blood frightened him, and Michael’s visits to him weren’t based upon feeding Sam angel blood and fucking him to sleep as much as they were comforting him and holding him. . . and, yes, fucking him to sleep. It was a lot gentler than when Sam was high on angel blood. It didn’t make Sam any less eager, lose that impatience of youth. He seemed to crave the ‘making love’ part of sex as much as he craved the ‘fuck me until I can’t walk’ part. And Michael, if truth be told, enjoyed it more, too. Enjoyed how Sam could often not say his full name, shortened Michael to just “Mi” as they rocked together; how Sam moaned and sighed instead of gasped and whimpered; how when they came, they came together, lips pressed against each other’s to feel each other’s mutual high. 

He loved how soft and gentle he was afterwards, looking well loved and like he mattered instead of being self deprecating.

It soothed him when Gabriel was killed by Lucifer, feeling his younger brother being ripped away from them, although it didn’t hurt as much as he thought it would. 

After all, he had assumed Gabriel dead for years. 

But Sam was there, and within Sam, he found a way to work through his brief grief and take pleasure. 

Visits were cut short often times as the Apocalypse loomed ever closer. Michael could feel that the time was coming. He hated it. 

Sam could also feel the rising anxiety. He knew he would have to have Lucifer possess him. It terrified him. 

Killing Lucifer meant killing Sam, and there was no way he could kill Sam Winchester. 

But his Father commanded him to kill or be killed. 

There was no middle ground. 

“I’ll find a way,” Sam whispered, the night before Sam was to say yes to Lucifer. “There’ll be a middle ground. We’ve got a plan.” 

“What if it doesn’t work?” Michael asked softly, letting his fingers trail up Sam’s thigh. “What if you can’t just jump in the hole?” 

Sam smiled. “I’m always good at back ups,” he said. “I’ll figure something out. I promise.” He kissed Michael’s cheek. “One last dose, Michael?” he whispered. “Please? Give me something pure before I have to defile my body again.” 

Michael smiled and pressed a kiss to Sam’s temple. “Of course, my Galahad,” he murmured softly. His heart and Grace were heavy, as was Sam’s. 

He knew what he had to do tomorrow. 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr! @lucibae-is-dancing-in-hell
> 
> Comments and Kudos are Shiny!!


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